


Tapes

by Vengeance7xOver



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vengeance7xOver/pseuds/Vengeance7xOver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keep a keen eye on those who surround you, whether they wield weapons or alliance. Not every riddle that makes a man is clear cut. [AU, perhaps leading to Blade/Scud. Brutal content in later chapters.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> I have not been on this site for nearly two years, but I plan to start writing again soon. For now, I'll be uploading this, which was written in 2014 or so. I've found a good deal of new fandoms that I plan to indulge, and I'll be updating my profile to make it easier for readers to request stories from particular fandoms.  
> Thank you to all of you who read this, and to all who supported me in previous years! I apologize for suddenly falling off the face of the Earth with no warning.

The slew of ashes scattered only from the drop of human bodies; familiars losing their loyalty contracts early. Blood pooled over the tile floor, ghosting around the soles of heavy black boots that carried a lone Daywalker forward, searching with hooded eyes for signs of retreat in the dim expanse. He held no advantage here, the battlefield even save for the silver rounds in the chamber of his automatic. 

Not that it truly mattered anymore; he knew he was here alone.

The woman he’d come to claim the life of had no presence in the complex after all, perhaps not even before the slaughter that littered remains all around. Either Whistler’s lead had been false, or she’d slipped away before he’d even cleared the foyer.

Dropping his firearm away into its respective holster, he knelt in a ribbon of blood mingled with sodden dust. Grasping a slip between his fingers, he pulled it from beneath a familiar—the one who’d ran at him with magnum drawn, only to be taken by suckhead fire—unfolding the crumpled surface.

 _Attack,_ it read in smeared black ink, _at all costs, engage him._


	2. Well Run Dry

Frustration fueled the jerk of the handle, momentum rolling the heavy steel door off to the side before dawdling back into place behind. Habitually, the Daywalker turned to attend the locks.

“Shipment came in tonight,” the old man’s voice carried through the warehouse. “Another round of doses for thirst, stronger than the last few…”

Pushing away from the twines of chain and seeping cold of the night they barred, Blade gave a grunt of acknowledgement. They were back to square one with this chase, again and again, like running down a ghost.

“Quiet tonight?”

“Not much to talk about.”

“Ah,” Whistler sighed, coming to rest on the railing encasing the workshop. “I take it she’s still solid then.”

“Not even sure she exists,” Eric admitted. “She’s only been in whispers so far. She could be a mere idea for all we know.”

“The kid seemed pretty certain she was real,” he reminded. “Maybe you could get some elaboration on that.”

Slowly, step by step, Blade brought himself to the base of the staircase, pausing to reflect upon the idea. “You’ve grown close, haven’t you?” he asked simply, no traces of bias or alternative contemplations, merely hinting as to his meaning. But Whistler had known him far too long to be distracted by all the things he could imply, and instead drew from it what he knew he needed. 

“He’s grown on me, I’ll admit,” Whistler nodded, clasping his hands together. “Despite how much he fucked up first impressions. He’s proven himself to be up to snuff, at least so far.”

“No slacking?” the Daywalker added, feeling his shoulders lift, a hint of a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth. 

“He doesn’t sleep _enough_ , but I suppose he’s young. I sent him to bed a few hours ago—God knows if he actually laid down.”

“I’ll check on him tomorrow night—but until then, you should get some rest as well. We need to clear our heads before jumping back into this Ulrike hunt.”

“You’re going back out?” the old man inquired with a bit of a scoff. “We don’t have any other leads yet.”

“I plan on taking a day before trying again, see if any one shows up in response to the massacre,” Blade returned, beginning his ascent in quiet, thoughtful steps. “And after all, Josh might find a lead of his own for us.”


	3. All Around the World

The pounding echoed in his ears, his arm aching as he continued to rap his fist against the rattling door. His calls between thrums of persistent hammering were met by silence, though this failed to strike worry in the old man. It had by now been some time since Whistler had met the boy, even longer since he’d come to live with Eric. He’d come to know him well, enough to keep in mind now that he hated to sleep, but sure did plenty of it when put up to it. He’d run himself nearly to death, and when it came time for him to crash, not Hell nor high water could wake him until he was ready, and certainly not an old man banging at his bedroom door.

It was not out of respect for personal space that Whistler remained outside, spreading his noise pollution. All three of them were in a constant cycle of finding new ways to invade that fanciful bubble. It was rather due to an incident about a week before hand in which he’d found Josh entirely _self-invested_ when he intruded, and the elder was still trying to forget the squeals of embarrassment.

“Whistler,” came a familiar voice from beneath the steel catwalk, interlaced with a new perplexity. At once, he dropped his arm away from the door, turning to peer over the railing to his partner. “Hadn’t we just gotten a shipment last night?”

“Of course we did. Don’t tell me it’s gone—,” he objected to the thought, brows furrowing as he watched the Daywalker lift a small postage-riddled package into view. “What’s that?”

“Don’t know,” Blade admitted. “But I’m counting on you to find out.”

*******

All systems ran in the attempt to catch a glimpse inside the simple cardboard box with its layers of stamps and tape. There came no results that suggested artillery, a bomb, or even poison in the discreet form of powder. No rigs and works appeared to be in order, or perhaps simply never made it this far, but nevertheless no knife pierced its edges before thorough investigation.

Hours of poking and scanning led to the Daywalker slicing past the binding strips, pulling back the four tightly fitted flaps. He piled the packing peanuts to the side, spilling them over onto the greasy floor as he dug two encasings from within. 

At once, he handed them off to Whistler, unaccustomed to the sight. He watched the old man’s face pull together in bewilderment. 

“Videotapes?” he asked, turning them over in his hands, careful not to drop them. A white rectangular sticker was placed in the center of each, baring a simple I and the other, a II. No farther writing littered the discolored surface, hinting the tapes were not new, but rather had been lying in wait for some time now. 

At once, Whistler turned away in the direction of Scud’s workstation. The television that usually gave way to _Powerpuff Girls_ through the crackle of static sat blank in the corner, coming to life only as the eldest pressed the first tape into the pieced-together VCR.


	4. Lusk Letter

They heard the voices rise before the static cleared, heavy and unfamiliar, laced with a chorus of muffled sobs. When the picture filtered through, the grainy quality could not mask who they found cowered in the corner, curled up within himself.

Neither could they bring themselves to action.

*******

A sharp yelp sounded as his hair was pulled, silenced by a brief strike as he was dragged from the corner. His thrashed boots scuffed farther against the concrete underneath his discolored form, the knees of his jeans long since given out.

“Everyone’s been eager since your arrival,” came his assailant’s voice, the language foreign to his young ears. The warehouse duo knew every word. “Waiting to see if you’re worth a mark.”

He said nothing, wide, pale eyes darting frantically from wall to wall, concrete to concrete. Where was the door?

The fist at the back of his head tightened, pressing him down against the musky floor, distilling a layer of white dust. He swallowed, trying to survive on shallow breaths as icy fingers smoothed away from his hair, down to hold his thin neck forward. “I have no doubt you’ll feel the needle soon enough.”

His mouth opened to reply, ask what it was he was hearing. His thoughts raced, all the assumptions of his own imagination striking up as quickly as they shot away. Was this a drug ring? What would _they_ want with a child? Or is this the mafia, in search for a hostage? What if this is a cult, and this man—and the others he saw before—are monsters waiting to sacrifice him in the name of a false god?

Anyway his mind came to describe it, death came certain.

“—Are you fucking listening to me?” His thoughts fell to rubble, forehead slamming down into the concrete once, twice, his vision dancing in and out of clarity. A quiet groan escaped through trembling lips, his arms reaching out in a dizzy attempt to brace himself.

Cool air washed over his back, raising the tender skin in its wake. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would keep a place so frigid—the only thing coming to mind a butcher’s locker, the animalistic corpses hung inside.

More ideas, more death.

It didn’t first occur to him _why. Why_ it was so suddenly nipping at his skin, biting through thick jeans and a woolen hoodie. The fingers ghosting his thighs spoke volumes. 

*******

“Hey—Eric! C’mon, kid, listen!” Whistler shouted, his hands wracking the Daywalker’s shoulders in attempt to break his spell. But Blade couldn’t look away. He knew all too well what he was seeing. _Initiation._ This must be how some familiars are born; how _Scud_ became. He couldn’t deny the identity of the child onscreen, not as he cowered, not as he finally began to scream. He’d known he’d worked for Damaskinos, but this was an entirely new House. “Eric!”

Slowly, he blinked back from the sight before closing his eyes to the television. He could not close his ears to it. “We need to go…” The screams faded, but the elder didn’t seem to notice. 

“To him,” Whistler amended. “We need to go to him.”

“Whistler,” the Daywalker shook his head, nudging the old man in the direction of the screen. White against crackling black displayed the words in a clean font. 

_Catch me if you can, Mister Brooks._


	5. Flicker

Three days.

Seventy-two hours.

Four thousand three hundred twenty minutes.

The seconds were countless. Each one agonizing.

The warehouse was void of sound in the absence of pounding speakers. No tools whirled with electric current, no metal clanging in the midst of an invention carried through the work stations. The air reeked of a stillness that settled into their bones; first Whistler’s, then Blade’s.

With the past day and a half spent hunched over on a wheeled work stool, the old man reviewed the tapes over and over and over again. The second tape had thus far proved blank, running its course side-by-side with the first that looped each time it ran to its end. The first never failed to bring a lasting sickness to his gut as he focused intently on the assailant pictured. There was no doubt in his mind that the man was a suckhead—no possible way he wasn’t—and, judging by the footage that followed the assault, he worked for their dear Ulrike.

They’d pulled the young, innocent Josh from the concrete Hell, securing him to a small bolted-down chair. There mustn’t have been an ounce of vigor left in him; not a single scream rose from his throat as the needle marked his pale skin.

Even this information, however, did nothing for them, only confirming the difficulty of the chase. Every hour, Eric had been out, searching the streets again and again, never anything new. For all they knew, the group had fled the city the instant Josh had been secured. He could be states—countries—away without their knowledge. 

The quiet steps brought Whistler from his tunneled gaze, adverting it around to the platform behind. “Anything?” he asked, weary voice deprived of hope. When he’d gone unanswered, watching only as Eric stepped forward, he felt a rage well in his chest for not the first time; his eyes fell away from Blade’s hooded expression. He surprised himself to find something twisted around his gloved fingers—a navy blue among the sheen of black leather, beaded with a faint pattern of white. 

He couldn’t dare breathe, for the thousand things this could bring to light. _He’s still in the city. Eric saw him. Ulrike’s killed him. Eric has him safe. We have a clue. A location. We have a memento, something to remember him by—_

“What.” It was, of all things, the one thing he could say, now, when it might matter most; A word that holds a hundred questions.

There was a presence of strength in those dark, tired eyes as the bandana was lifted, tucked into the breast pocket of his coat. He didn’t dare answer the old man, not when it could rouse the faith that had crumbled their foundation in the first of these three days. There wasn’t any advantage in assuring everything would be okay anymore, not when all could be lost at any moment.

“Come with me.”


	6. Nuke

“This is it, isn’t it?” Whistler asked quietly despite the echo of night life spilling in from the street. “Where you found it?” He shifted from his bad leg to his good, eying all the darkest corners of the alleyway.

“It was just at the mouth. I hadn’t gone much farther, too many people lurking around for me to go unnoticed. Attention wouldn’t serve us well.”

“So you came for me.” It hadn’t made much sense to him why Eric brought him along. He’d slow him down, bring longing looks from by-passers. The only thing he could think to offer was advise—and he could do that sitting back at the warehouse. “Where to?”

“This channel leads back through into the largest section of vampiristic housing in this city. We should wind our way around, see if we can find anything else. If he dropped his bandana, he may have dropped more, giving us a trail.”

“Do you think they’d be that careless with him?”

“They could just be drawing us into a trap, but what choice do we have.” There was no hint of question in his voice, not when they both knew what their options were.

_Jack shit._

“Are we prepared for this?” Whistler’s eyes tore from the shadows. His concern didn’t seem in place with his words, and Eric knew where it truly resided. He knew from his own experience.

“We might not get another chance, old man. Prepared or not, we have to go.”

*******

“There are three entrances; One in the front, a man door, and two at the rear near the garage. If we can get to the roof, there are air ducts which would provide a fourth point of entry. If all of the warehouse’s original features are still intact, it should prove simple.”

They were still in the next room over, muttering their _grand_ scheme of things as though he couldn’t hear every word of it. Thus far, he knew their targets, the first stages of their plan, and what the ultimate goal was. Who. Why. Where. They were all answered. At this rate, he’d know the remaining questions soon enough.

“It’s worthless,” the gruff voice assured him, little care in the drunken slur. “Listen all ya like, it’ll only make your life that much more painful.”

“There is no life here, and I don’t plan to see my end the way you do.”

“I had plans too, squirt. Look how they turned out.”

Scowling, Josh looked away from the man, finding a wall of gray to focus on; one of the same four he’d stared at for the past few days. “You didn’t have what I do.”

“I don’t care if you have a fuckin’ tank, ya imp. Those fuckers’ll hunt you down, pull apart everything you’ve ever worked for, and give you something to remember it by.” Scud opened his mouth to protest, but the inmate would have none of it. “Don’t even try, I mean it. Not a frag, nor a nuke could help you now. They’ll enslave you and beat you down, carve their names into your flesh—You don’t know the life of a familiar yet.”

“I’ll be out of here within a week,” Josh gloated nonetheless, a smile hinting on his lips as to the man’s ignorance.

“Christ, how can you be such a godforsaken airhead?”

“And how can you?”

He paused, the hesitance of an idiot building his rage. “You don’t know--!”

“The hell I don’t.” It was the pitch rather than the words that drew the man back flat against the wall. Scud had spoken a word or two of rebellion, but never above a whisper. “You’re older than me by a long shot, I get it; you’re supposed to be wiser than you are. But I’ve been here before, years and years ago before you even knew humans weren’t alone. They toss you around like a dirty magazine most nights, especially after some good raid. When they’re done, they’ll stick you in your cage if you’re lucky, though they seemed to have upgraded their pets to rooms. If you weren’t the best that night, you get a royal ass-beating until the backs of your legs are stained black for days at a time. I _know_ them, asshole. Don’t think for one minute I’m some blissful college kid who walked into the wrong party.”

For a minute more, the man hadn’t a thing to say. He’d been here five years and had never once seen this kid. If he wasn’t lying, he’d have had to’ve been but a child last he’d been here. Instead of speaking, he looked away, toward the strips of white light outlining the door. The voices had ceased, only footfalls sounding now as the suckheads roamed the floor. Who knew what they were doing now.

“Is she here?” It was a nice alternative to his formerly sharp undertaking. “Do you know?”

“No,” his voice came curt, but not entirely removed. “She comes once a day now that you’re here, has since the first day you arrived, then vanishes to some ivory tower overseas. Waste of time and fuel if you ask me. You’re nothing to get excited about.”

“Where’s this place? The one she goes to?”

“How about a little goods exchange? Tell me what it is you have that you’re so confident in?”

“In return for her castle?”

“In return for her _country._ Your nuke.”

“Mister Burton, have you ever heard of the Daywalker?”


	7. Colossal

Patchwork.

Scud had been in charge of it himself ever since the week in which he blew the knees out of his cargos a total of six times. The old man had refused to waste his time bent over a perfectly able-bodied kid’s clothes, weaving a needle to and fro every few hours. Since then, he’d been more careful about preserving his clothes, but by no means had the repairs halted. His sewing skills were nothing to hold to his trade, and the patches often fell loose.

He never thought he’d say it, but this kid was a genius. 

Watching as Blade stuffed the ninth cloth square into his coat, Whistler hobbled to his side, half a smirk illuminated by the scattered moonlight. “I’m convinced Ulrike’s men didn’t know a thing about these.”

“Won’t kill us to keep our guard up anyway,” Blade advised, voice seemingly indifferent to their string of luck. “We don’t know, one of them may have watched him do this, but if Scud dropped these, they likely wouldn’t have made a sound, and they’re small enough to be disregarded if anyone saw them lying around.”

“No outside party would think to pick them up.”

“No one at Ulrike’s would miss them if they disappeared.”

They shared a glance, knowing well what they were doing. It was the only thing Blade had tried with everything he had to prevent from happening, and he realized now he’d failed in every way. He’d failed Whistler, the man who’s raised him and let him live, and he’d managed to betray himself.

There was a flicker there in those aged pale eyes, and a swell of it in his own chest. Hope. The very thing that could destroy them the instant they let it go unchecked.

*******

“Do you recall? That first night after your marking?”

The concrete floor below was intricate, scattered with hues of orange and red, black where the layers were much too thick. Lines raked gray, soulless streaks through the colors, exposing the rough rock he knew too well the touch of. It’s been so long since he’d been flat on the floor in distress, his limbs too heavy to move, but he remembered the sensation well.

Not that he’d admit to her that much, when he couldn’t even meet her gaze.

So he grit his teeth for a blow; one for the throat and one for the eye, one for all the places she loved to watch the black blossom. It made the blood in his veins all the sweeter, she’d claimed years ago, like wine pumping through the cellar of his chest.

“You flinched,” she took notice aloud, her pride flying high. “And here I worried you wouldn’t even remember mother-dearest.”

Shut up. He felt it in his gut as he heard the name. It made him just as sick today as it had his shattered, orphaned self a decade ago.

“I’ve remembered you too, child, though I never knew why. You were an eyesore of a baby, but boy did you grow up handsome.”

Shut up. It stuck in his throat, his arms trembling as his last innocent shreds floated back into his memory. What it was like to be somebody’s baby, to be groomed and loved. To have a family to rely on, to sit down at a meal, or to be tucked into bed, a kiss placed on his forehead. He could recall his last day; his classes and the face of a friend, the lunch he hadn’t eaten and the homework he never did, all vivid enough to knot his thoughts to try and save himself.

“When I heard a whisper of you taking to this city, I had called it fate bringing you home. I never should have sold you off to those rowdy brethren, but you’d given me no choice being of such little use. Now I see your purpose; why I let you go.”

Shut up. On the tip of his tongue like a taste he couldn’t shake.

“Imagine my surprise when we found you curled up with the Daywalker and his old man. You sure made mother proud to call you her own again.”

“Shut up…” It was quiet and unconscious, his eyes tracing the swirls of crimson on the floor.

The ear hovering at his lips so suddenly startled him that he barely gathered the words that followed. “What was that, sweetheart?”

She was close, too close for him to think straight, and the smell of her perfume left him with lingering memories of a long-ago place in New Jersey. There were too many scenes at once, the highest and the lowest mingling to taint innocence and bring light to darkness. He couldn’t see through the past, couldn’t hear the racing of his heart any longer. 

And so it surprised even him when he screamed loud enough to deafen her.


	8. Strong-Arming

Shrapnel burst through the doorway, staking into the pale walls of the concrete corridor. The Daywalker barely pulled himself from the opening before the debris began to fly, a stray strip of iron drawing a thin crimson line over his cheek.

With his back against the wall, he listened past the adrenaline pounding in his ears, hearing the patter and clang of settling remains. Silence ensued. 

He glanced to the opposing side of the doorway, the space empty where life should stand, where his old man should be pressed. He dared peer into the building’s centerpiece; the room that all others led to one way or another. A plume of ash still carried in the air, the floor littered here and piled there with crippled equipment, limiting his line of sight.  
A quiet clamor caught his attention among the ruins, smirking as a hushed curse followed it.

“Whistler.”

“Ya comin’ or not, kid? It’s now or never,” he called back to Eric without a glance, dodging razors as he wobbled along. His mindful gait faltered as a shout pulled his vision to the left, to a lighted opening some six yards away in the thick air. The voice had been raw and strained, too garbled in what might have been agony or despair to be of comprehension. Nonetheless, he had this sinking feeling knotting in his gut that he knew the cry, both its source and its message. His skin rose from his arms and nape, chest tightening, and all-too warm in the cool warehouse ventilation that seeped in from the night beyond its walls. He found his breath held between a hope and his hammering heart, too old and wise to let it go.

Eric was at his side before he heard a sound of approach, pulling him up over his shoulder in one sudden, bizarre moment—and they were off again, over the blackened parts and shards, onward to uncertainty as it stood promising before them. It seemed in that moment there were more ruins in this room than a single grenade could have possibly generated on its own; a premonition is either dared acknowledge. 

When Whistler found the ground beneath his feet once more, the doorway lie before him, wedged open by a small postal box. Taking it into his hands, the Daywalker pulled the door open the rest of the way, revealing the crimson sight inside.

“B—B?”

The box fell from his grasp, saved only by the old man’s dulled reflexes; why, he didn’t know. Eric came to a kneel in front of the chair where the boy was bound, his face obscured by deep shades of purple and black, bruised wide and blood caked. His clothes were torn, though whether it be from the missing patches or the suckheads’ abuse, he couldn’t say.

“Get,” he took a sharp, shuddering breath, his throat burning and chopping his words. “Ulr-rike.”

For all he knew, Whistler’s grenade had left her scattered over the warehouse floor. “Where is she?”

Josh shook his head, once and then again, trying and failing to catch his breath. Blade sat patiently before him, strong hands resting on the boy’s knees. He couldn’t rush him; he didn’t know the full extent of Ulrike’s wrath here alone, when all the odds were in her favor.

“P-plane-- Slav,” he panted out, closing his eyes in concentration. In, out, _in, out._ Eric looked up to Whistler, raising a brow in question to the simple two words. 

“The Slav Republic.”


	9. Erbrochenes

The slow, rhythmic rocking cradled him in his gradual wake, the hum of a quiet engine keeping his eyes laden against the soft light that shimmered over his eyelids. For immeasurable time, he lie there on his side, curled and cocooned in what felt like a lead comforter resting heavily over his body. It was only when the world around him seemed to _tilt_ that he began to wonder about his predicament—after all, he couldn’t recall where last he’d been, whenever that was. While he made no attempt to visually search his surroundings, he felt it was nowhere he’d ever been before. He knew the warehouse well enough to count it out; no industrial fans whirled here, nor did it reek of fuel and a faint musk. The absence of iron in the air suggested he was far from the soundproof room of Ulrike’s Hellhouse, the comforts of this makeshift bed all the more evidence. There was no—

The room around him began to rattle and shake, his eyes flying open as he jolted back and forth before being pitched to the floor. His stomach jumped to his throat as he found the floor, clenching painfully as he was rolled farther from his haven—and then it was over, the floor smoothing back to its calm hum before his heart had the chance to fully speed up. 

Lying flat on his back, the blanket somewhere beneath him, he felt his throat tighten and his nose burn. His head spun so fully that he barely heard the door at his feet slide open, the lopsided gait thudding against the padded carpet. “Hey, kid—.”

_Oh, God—Oh fucking God, is that—I’m not—_

Whistler barely got the boy sat up before he doubled over in his arms, retching.

*******

“What happened?” Eric asked upon the old man’s return, allowing a human undertone into his voice as his copilot slipped into the seat beside him. 

“The turbulence threw him from the bed you made back there, made him sick,” Whistler spoke lightly, taking a weary look out the cockpit. The field they’d manage their craft into was wide and otherwise desolate; the high grass not so much as swaying in the open air beyond. 

“We shouldn’t have brought him here—not so close to her reach…”

“Well I’m sorry, I couldn’t find a sitter on such short notice, but this is his fight too.”

“Not like this,” Eric’s voice stayed low, mindful of the circumstances. “If we don’t come back, he’ll be stranded here.”

“Then he goes with us—.”

“In his condition? How long will he last? A mile into the woods? To the Ulrike’s front door? We can’t betray him now, not after all this time.”

Taking a deep breath, Whistler dropped his gaze to the controls, feeling his fatigue weigh on him for the first time since they’d departed. “I’m afraid—if we leave him here, they’ll find this thing come nightfall. She’s got to be paranoid as hell by now…”

“Maybe you should stay; the two of you resting up until it gets dark. You keep a few arms and let no one past you if they come.”

“You really want in this alone, kid? We don’t know their resources—we were pumping military-grade weaponry in the last _fist-fight._ What are you gonna do if she’d got a cavalry?”

“I’ll mow every last fucker down until she’s dead in my hands,” he answered coolly, his gaze carrying out the window. “I have all the motive I’d ever need to do so.”


	10. Ambuscade

Staring down into the pit, the trap door propped open by his steady grip, Blade took in a deep breath, releasing it as a heavy sigh. It was such a human thing to do; a sign of exasperation and annoyance when all his options were as good as his mood. Perhaps when this calamity was over, he’d benefit from a vacation absent of humanity.

It surprised him more and more each day how close he’d found himself with the old man and the kid. Whistler was a father in every way, his tough love and snarky comments betraying just how much he cared for him— for both he and Scud. Ever since the fall of the House of Damaskinos, Whistler had warmed beyond the point he’d been before being taken; it was something that had taken Eric time to get used to, but he’d seen first-hand how gratefully the youngest of them had welcomed it, and that in itself helped him to adapt.

And then there was Josh. When he’d found him that night, broken and bleeding out, he hadn’t expected the twitchy kid to make it far. It was Hell to admit, but he’d kept him only to ease the pain of losing Whistler, only to find another emptiness filled as a result. He kept him guessing, made him smile even in the darkness of their plights, and never failed to steal his attention away when he honestly should be working. No, Josh was like no other, and he’d let no Slavic night crawler cut short his life.

Easing down the rungs into the gloom, he took one last glance up to the woodland canopy before pulling closed the hatch and plunging himself into complete, unbroken darkness.

*******

“Oh God—,” he groaned from his bed, eyes fluttering against the dim yellowed light. His stomach was tossing high and plunging low, his throat burning from the aftermath of his turbulence tumble. It was contagious, the illness growing out to clench his chest, burning as he drew even half a breath. His elbows and hips ached, his lower back so stiff and taut sitting up was a chore. “I think—maybe they poisoned me…”

“I don’t think so. You’d be dead by now, kid. Sorry to disappoint,” the old man spoke evenly, checking the semi-automatic rifle, assuring himself the slip was loaded at full capacity with silver bullets. Eric had been gone two hours already, and with no idea what that might mean for them, he was more than ready to blast anything that dared not raise a white flag of defeat.

“I think my—my insides are melting.” He shuddered, the motion making him that much more ill.

“Just be sure to warn me if you’re gonna throw up again. I’ll get ya that trash can behind the pilot’s seat.” Setting the firearm down, he moved to glance out the small window across from Scud’s bed, unnerved to see it so late in the day. Soon, they’d be able to approach…

“I didn’t get to bee B before he left,” Josh managed, drawing a short, shaky breath. “Do you think he’s alright?”

“You didn’t see him off because he wasn’t saying goodbye. He’ll be back in his own good time; I know he has it in for her to suffer.”

“I want him back,” he whimpered, clutching his gut.

“Give him time—“

“I can’t. It’s the same as giving _her_ time and—and I know what she uses hers for,” he fought to speak, the pain in his chest hindering the fluidity of his plead. “I never thought it so, but—maybe B needs backup on this one.”

*******

The tunnel system was elaborate at first, even for Ulrike in all her paranoid glory. She was aware she had enemies in high places, he’d give her that.

Past the labyrinth’s enormity, the impressive quality diminished. Candles and smoking torches lit his path after the initial quarter mile from the entrance he’d used, presumably for any familiars that might work the corridors. The walls were still dirt, lined with wooden planks for support, and often bulged out and crumbled. It was more of a mine than a suckhead’s escape route, the occasional glimmer through the dust all the more confirming. 

A low hum rose to his ears, bouncing over the uneven surfaces all around, moving away and back again even when he paused. It was likely a power supply for Ulrike’s mansion, if these were in fact her tunnels, supporting lighting, appliances, and automatic shutters. 

When the ground beneath his boots began to vibrate, he dropped his theories and rushed forward, keen on finding an exit. If she knew he was here, it was better to find higher, open ground then chance being pinned in a hall of unstable dirt.

There seemed to be no end, the light illuminating farther and farther stretches after every turn. Surely they wouldn’t allow a hall so singular that may grant them only one option of travel in the case of an emergency evacuation—surely they would branch tunnel after tunnel off of the main path to escape fleeing as an easy target giving a simple chase.

Then again, Ulrike herself made little sense to him. 

Blade slowed at the initial scream of machinery, his hand sliding over the end of one silver stake beneath his coat. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, the sound now a roar, one deafening to any human, and the gleam of a drill approaching took a notch from his confidence. He couldn’t see the driver, but he could hear the chorus of laughter from behind the shrill machine.

Unable to aim, he turned forward again to run, his first few steps halted by a wall of suckheads, their ranks line up out of sight behind the first.

The Daywalker had two options:

Slaughter the army or be ground to bloody ash by the drill.


	11. Choke

The first few waves were a blur of ash and startled screams, the ranks piling onto the dusty mine floor, eaten by the crawling drill at his back. Blade wouldn’t give it the time of day, knowing the time it took him to glance back could be the seconds it needed to drive into his spine. 

It wasn’t until he reached for his katana that he realized he’d been screaming, his cries vengeful and primordial. He only knew two days’ worth of Ulrike’s fury on Josh, unable to block out scenes from his taunting imagination of all the hours of torture that he would have endured overall—the suffering he was aware of was enough to drive him insane with malice.

Drawing a deep breath, he fought to recover placidity despite his rage. Blind fury would prove to be his demise, and dying now was no different than securing a noose around Scud’s throat.

The painful cries he heard morphed into words, calling out and taunting him with scenarios of the past he had previously only supposed had happened. Each suckhead advancing gave a gruesome detail more before their necks left their shoulders, their hearts bursting against the tip of his blade. They continued to come, a seemingly endless legion of vampires to spare so long as the queen was safe—she, their general, who was perhaps more lethal than her army could ever be.

It wouldn’t end, and when the first attack to succeed, a stake in his side, registered to him, he knew he couldn’t keep pace. Hundreds lie underfoot, all there by his hand; he couldn’t kill that many over again.

When the next stake tore into his thigh, he stumbled back, the katana tight in his hands, the ashes of the fallen raining suddenly over him as they were kicked up by the vehicle—and the drill choked and sputtered, the crazed screams from beyond echoing out to him as the machine came to a standstill.

Blade stared at the beast in surprise, the tip scarcely an inch from his chest where he turned to face it in its grave silence. The suckheads behind him were quiet, whispering among themselves in confusion, as though they hadn’t the slightest clue how they’d gotten here in such a predicament. One asked another if this had been part of the plan, the machine cutting out, when a man climbed up from behind the drill.

“Ya comin’, kid, or are ya just gonna stand there?”


	12. First of the Frail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've finally decided upon my next story after starting a couple ideas. Though it shouldn't be too long a tale, I'm worried it will take a while to write between it, school, and scripts.

Racing up into the cab, Eric thought nothing of Whistler’s arrival, focusing instead on the sharp pain of the stakes, the ache of his body from days without rest of any kind. When they proceeded forward, the whirl before them nearly drowned out the fall of Ulrike’s army, the last of them dying with pleads on their lips. 

He didn’t know he’d fallen under until the injection pierced his arm, the shrouded thirst disintegrating and his boundless strength rushing to fill each weary muscle he’d harbored when he’d quit his fight. The wounds he’d collected couldn’t be felt anymore, not even as he stretched and opened his eyes.

“Good morning, glory. We’ve gotta get this operation rolling,” the man at his side urged, sliding from the cab and into the open space beyond. Eric glanced around before he followed, gathering that they remained in the tunnel, but this was its end. A set of rungs much like the ones he’d used to lower himself into this mess led up to a steel trap. “You alright?”

“I will be, give it time.”

“Unfortunately, time’s not something we’ve got a lot of. If that was her welcoming committee, we might want to think about skipping the party—.”

“You’re here…” Eric cut him off, his senses coming to him at once. His face knit into confusion, concern breaking through his stoic expression. 

“No shit, been here long enough to save your ass and patch you up—.”

“You shouldn’t be—Josh. Don’t tell me it’s night already.”

“It’s barely dusk, Eric, and the kid is the reason I’m here. He said if we were to succeed in taking her down once and for all, you’d need all the help you could get.”

“And you listened to him? You left him alone?”

“The kid’s got a gun—.”

“And he’s lucky if he hits a sitting target--!”

“He’s gotten better, hasn’t he? You’ve been training him for months!”

Eric only shook his head, unable to say anything for the near daily sessions he’s had with Josh. They might last an hour with less than a full clip fired, Eric far too distracted by the younger’s nervous chatter and concentrated movements, strangely suiting for his being. It was because he knew Josh had no fighting potential that he often allowed the training to go undone, filled instead by the boy’s quiet laughter and soft voice. Whistler never asked how well he did; always assumed he was in the least making an attempt. Eric couldn’t deny the fault was his, and that he’d never have allowed for such an irresponsible disregard had any single detail been different. Instead of assuring the boy could fight for his life, he’d settled for listening to all the new stories and old aspirations.

“I’m not going back to him empty-handed, Eric,” Whistler spoke when the Daywalker didn’t, his gaze catching Blade’s with a ferocity he hadn’t seen in years—and he knew it was time to move on from this place.

Climbing up the rungs, Blade popped the steel trap and slipped up into the narrow enclosure above, the old man at his heels. The darkness left Whistler blind to the tight quarters, his hybrid counterpart able to take in what appeared to be a pantry, lined with shelves of wax candles, razor blades, syringes, and—

The Daywalker didn’t care to consider what the rest of the items were, sure to be haunted by whatever their purpose. Pushing open the rounded doorway, light spilled over them from skylights two stories above the ground floor, dimmed as the room lay unoccupied. It was mostly bare given its size, occupied only by a few plush chairs, a bulky chest of drawers, and a four post bed at the center, adorned by veils to obscure a farther view.

Fine by him.

Voiced from outside urged the two of them forward, pressing their backs to the wall opposite the pantry. The sounds were carried by the smooth stonework of the walls and floors, the language known to them only by their trade.

“If there has been but whispers of their appearance, that much is one thing. But those I ordered into the right flank catacombs have reported nothing back to me, and there are no traitors in this House. If you wish to calm me on the matter, you’re a fool, Kozachenco, and I’ll not tolerate such kind here in my presence.”

“I wish only to assure you, Master, that any efforts made against us are futile—.”

“If they were futile, you wouldn’t need to assure me of anything. Instead, you’d do well to place yourself in a position of preparation.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Send out a search party when the skies first lose light. The old one you may kill; as for the half-breed and our dear son, bring them here to my chambers. My intentions shall not be made clear to them.”

“Of course. May your word be true.”

The clicking of heels echoed for a time before they were too far gone to be focused on, the door at Blade’s shoulder squealing as it opened by the hand of an enemy unknown.

With surprise on their side, Eric slammed closed the door after the subject had passed through, revealing himself to be the steward of the hive. A steward that was soon held by the threat of a silver bullet and led across the room to the bed where he collapsed, trembling with a fear no doubt selfish.

“Excuse us the intrusion, but we’re a little lost, see, and you look like you know your way around the place,” Blade played sarcastically, brows raised and a smirk wavering. “Mind telling up where to find Ulrike?”

“You think _I’d_ tell _you_ that? Have you met the damned _czarina_? She’d have my head!”

“What makes you think I won’t?” 

“I—Oh God, please—.”

“If you tell me what I need to know, you won’t have her to worry about.”

“I’ve been warned plenty of your likeness, Daywalker, don’t think I’m blind to your cruel tricks,” he shot despite his hushed, wavering voice.

“Then you know I’ll torture you until you speak.”

Silence ensued the hybrid’s warning, the moronic sucker mulling his options between life and loyalty. His head lowered to allow his eyes to escape the gazes of the duo standing over him, wondering whether the half-breed and the elder would fall to slaughter or muster the strength to combat a foe such as his queen. In his research, neither idea seemed to take precedence over the other, and thus he couldn’t fathom on his own who he might side with—but he knew his master’s wrath best of all and couldn’t be shaken from it by a creature he knew a tale or two of. 

In a voice of defeat, the steward raised his head to mutter “, Hail to the Queen.”

Three bullets took his jaw in an instant, one straying off the bone to his heart.


	13. Trail of Ashes

She had never doubted there was incompetence within her House, but blatant disregard was something much apart. For the second time this lone evening, no reports reached her, leaving her with no news upon which to act for the first time in almost a century. Without plans for action, there was no ground upon which to stand and watch the half-breed fall. He was all that stood in her way of a perfect world; an earth where humanity was just as Josh had been with her those years ago—so weak and afraid, cowering at the very mention of her name.

Shivering in delight of the memory, Ulrike reminded herself she wasn’t quite over that hill yet. She had to find Kozachenko and find out if the search party had dispatched—then onto Manovich in the underground to find an explanation for his party’s failure to return. A part of her hoped, for his sake, he was dead. If that were the case, a whole lot more around there would begin to make sense.

*******

It was unnerving to find no windows through all the corridors they walked, and the regularity of blacked out stretches helped none. What Whistler wouldn’t give for just _one glance_ outside, to see the sun still lying on the treeline where he’d left it. They were wasting too much time roaming from room to room in the hope of happening upon her. In his opinion, that suckhead back at the bedroom could have been shoved around a bit more for an answer, and—though he knew better than to think it could’ve gone differently—they should’ve just charged through the door when her and her steward lie just on the other side.

His reason reprimanded him, telling him they didn’t just through the door for their lack of information. There could’ve been any number of vampires or familiars out there with them, and this time they didn’t have a drill to ward off attack. All the same, the woman they heard, however unlikely, could have turned out not to be their pest.

Sighing, he focused on keeping up his pace, hoping the sun set slower in this Slavic landscape.

*******

The world had finally stopped spinning around him, letting him lie in peace with his broken body. It was so dark here in his bed, all alone without a soul to speak with him in soft voices. He felt very much like a child, home all his lonesome while all the other children rushed off to school, the parents bustling through the work traffic.

What he wouldn’t give to be that child again, if he ever was.

He was ashamed to admit it, but he had no early memories. Even some of his first masters were a blur. He remembered no bedtime stories on which to dwell, no friends to miss all these years later—Only if he really poured himself into the task could he bring to mind the shadow of a family. But he couldn’t hear their voices and their faces went unseen, genders nonexistent.

When his sorrow over his lost memories would begin to overcome him, he’d call to mind Blade and Whistler, the two that kept him alive despite all the darkness that consumed him. They were the memories he had now to forge and remember, to replace the hollow space he’d avoided for years. They were his family now, and it made it easier to once more let go of all he’d forgotten.

He was on the verge of nodding off when he heard the wind pick up, moaning through the trees and whispering through the tall grass of the field. Strange, how soothing it was, the cool air rustling his hair and running over his neck…

His eyes flew open when it occurred to him no such sound—no such feeling—should reach him here. Something was open; his first hope was for this all to be some kind of mistake, that he’d forgotten some form of ventilation that functioned in this vessel even when they were on the ground and dead, but he couldn’t call to mind a single craft that could do such a thing. _What if the door hadn’t latched when Whistler had left him?_

It was a nice thought that gave his mind no rest to entertain.


	14. Scrutiny

_Failed—They had all failed._

She had rushed to her quarters, looking to climb down herself to the underground when she found the ashen remains on her bed, the amulet of Kozachenko’s the only remnant left unburned. Gritting her teeth, she refused to accept the fear in her gut, the terror that gnawed at her from the inside out. The steward could be replaced—idiots were abundant in any species—but the _idea_ of another death was rattling. What if the House was on its last legs?

Unacceptable. What had been but a game, this tormenting of the half-breed pest, could never bring her down. She may be shaken—but she wouldn’t fall.

It was only when she descended into the tombs that she happened upon the scene of her undoing. The many heartless privates should have overwhelmed even the most feral of beasts—and instead they laid in bloodless heaps on the dirt floor, a threat to none.

The scream she let out was raw and barbaric, carrying through the labyrinth for all the miles it stretched beyond the corridor. She’d be damned if she’d let this mutt destroy centuries of work, the slow build of an empire. She’d be damned if he left her House as he had Damaskinos’ not so long ago…

She sank to the floor, pounding a closed fist into the remains of her army, her yell manifesting into words as it suddenly came together. “No! You squeamish little bastard—,” Ulrike seethed to herself, her eyes alive with her hatred. She had been informed of young Josh’s whereabouts the day he arrived at Overlord Damaskinos’ front stoop, bound and gagged to serve as a pawn. It hadn’t crossed her mind to watch the plan to infiltrate the vampire menace—her House had been too caught up in a personal betrayal that set her back a few scores—but now to think of it…

In the end, it wasn’t her vampirism, nor her strength that had brought the Daywalker to her like a bat out of Hell. No, she was beginning to believe no plans of total destruction she conjured up could have ever brought him into such a furious pursuit. Instead, it was the one thing she had thought to have no consequences messing with, but instead revealed itself to be the fire of the sun: Blade’s humans.

And that child, in particular, would taste her vengeance.

*******

Blade jerked Whistler away from the main hall a moment after he ducked over himself; the sudden commotion ahead suggested nothing they should interfere with if it could be helped, surging closer and closer—the slamming of heavy wooden doors, the endless foreign words uttered and cried out alike, the many footfalls echoing on stonework…

These were the cowards, they could both tell as they watched them, the division of Ulrike’s ivory tower that only got their hands dirty if the refrigerated blood packet spilled.

“You thinkin’ what I am?” a smirk came over Whistler’s face, not bothering to lower his voice against the approaching roar. Eric cocked a brow, glancing to the grenade the old man raised—Josh’s handiwork. 

The corner of his mouth turned up, nodding his head toward the chaos.


	15. Word of the Crow's Nest

Each and every thought had fallen away, leaving in their wake a primitive, instinctual terror. His blood ran cold; his eyes trained straight ahead; his only movement the vague trembling of his hands.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, darling.”

*******

Despite the finality the UV brought them—the end to the chaos only steps away—the hallway did not fall silent as intended. They could hear a hoarse coughing, persistent even in the face of a threat, conveying a fact unto Eric that he hadn’t even considered.

Stepping out of the alcove in which they’d shielded themselves from the harsh light, they found opulent death caked over the stonework in the form of ash, plenty still lingering in the air. Deposits of it filtered down from the ceiling, sending a dusty shower over an elderly old man; a human.

The duo exchanged glances, neither on sure what to make of him—this old man lying on his back in a heap of soot. What goof would he do her, the Queen of the Monsters, when he was clearly far too crippled to labor over her every word.

“The—The Day—walker,” he wheezed between coughs, his eyes widening in recognition of the men before him. “Come—at last…”

Kneeling down by the doorway, Blade slid his glasses from his face, folding them into his coat. “ _Come at last_ —for her to eliminate?”

“No,” the older croaked, breathing heavily as the coughs slowly subsided. “For—For us.”

“Who do you mean?”

“The stolen… Those who were—taken—for all her p-plans.”

“What were those plans?” His voice came quietly, the sound carrying nonetheless in the lifeless corridor.

“To enslave—all of life.”

“Rather big plot for one suckhead on a power trip,” Whistler scoffed, his arms crossed over his chest. “ ‘Spose she’s working with someone?”

“D-Don’t ever underestimate… She has built a nation of b-bad blood; she’s only vulnerable now—two significant divisions rebelled and left her control…” Sitting up with quite the effort, the man did not appear as frail as he had during his fit. “Kozachenko—as an advisor—convinced her there was a boy of great importance to her goal… A belief they d-didn’t share.”

“Josh,” Eric spoke at once. “A previous familiar.”

“A slave,” the man corrected. “All the same as anyone else.”

“And what about you? What part do you play in all of this?”

“I’m a mirror,” he admitted quite easily, as though it was commonplace discussion. “She keeps a human, always from birth until death.”

“Why?” asked the Daywalker, furrowing his brows. This was not a common House—he’d never encountered such behaviors as Ulrike seemed to have implemented into her society of followers. Perhaps that explained how she’d gone so long undetected.

“For her ego. She w-watches us grow up, age, die. And still she stands even as human after human perishes. That’s why she brought the boy in to begin with, back before he became so relevant; alongside another human, he would provide her another child after my death to watch grow.”

“And after that?” the standing man narrowed his eyes, glancing to the hybrid, watching his features become twisted with anticipation for the answer and flinching uncharacteristically as he received it. He knew Eric had been displeased about leaving Josh alone—now he saw just how much it agonized him.

“Beheaded, usually; or experiments if subjects are low.”

“You seem to know the workings of this place,” Whistler acknowledged, willing the conversation in another, more worthy direction. “Care to share where she might go to hide around here?”

“In the case of an emergency, she would flee to another tower. It’s been centuries since she’s had to see battle; she knows she’s rusty. If not, then she’d be in the nest, overlooking the property.”

“How much can be seen from there?”

“A few miles, at least.”

The duo exchanged glances, the same understanding coming to their attention at once.

The plane.


	16. The Dirty Walls

The kicked up ashes of the army were all the reassurance he didn’t need, the path to Ulrike all but confirmed. Who else would flee through the very passageway he had infiltrated the castle through, moving in such a hurry that the ground underfoot was left cracked from the force of their steps?

The span of a few miles were a blur, passing faster than he would have expected given the great pain of his lungs. It was only when he was topside, the cool night wind running through the trees, that he’d notice his breath was held. They had been lucky, he recognized, to have had Josh make it out of Damaskinos’ in one piece. Having him survive two powerful attacks in less than a year felt sickeningly unlikely.

The trees began to thin, his vision tunneled forward to the black shape in the field, large and looming. His judgment clouded by the prospect of a bloodbath, the pain didn’t register until he hit the ground. He felt the crunch of his sunglasses in the breast of his coat, the ringing in his ears momentarily swallowing up his perception.

Bullets had riddled his legs, just enough to keep him down, and it took no imagination to figure the shooter; from out of the gloom came the image of the smoking gun in the hand of the Queen of Monsters. With a grin of sheer satisfaction, she stood tall before him, the firearm shaking within her grip.

“You care a bit too much, Daywalker,” her voice jutted in through resonance. “A human shouldn’t have cost you your life.”

The sight of the barrel shook him none, the stinging in his legs not quite the advantage she surely thought it was. Yet when he opened his mouth to speak, not a coherent word came forth.

“What is it, half-breed? Are you wondering where your little fuck toy is?” Watching him grimace, she leaned a bit closer to study—to savor—his agony. “If only I could show you the plane before you died… His insides smeared over the walls, blood still warm and oozing over what flesh is left…”

Kneeling down, she pumped another two shots into his thigh where before the stake had pierced the skin. “Oh, and the screaming! He really thought you were coming to rescue him, Daywalker; had died pleading for you to show up. He never understood until his bitter end that the only thing he could count on was his mother,” she cooed, cocking her head to the side as he closed his eyes and knit his brows. “Is this too much for you, hearing the truth? Hearing you failed the boy who’d put all his faith into you?”

She’d began raising her voice, the fury she’d felt after happening upon the ashes in the underground trickling back into her system. Her hands shook worse than they had a moment before, adrenaline pumping a false warmth through her veins. “And who the fuck are you to deserve such trust—when you fail all who follow you? When the elder was taken without much a struggle and turned, when you let my son be taken a _multitude_ of times, passed from House to House like an empty shipment—You have been nothing but a letdown, undeserving of all you have, and it fills me with joy to be the one to expose you to all of it--!”

The gun fired in rapid succession, the forest falling silent thereafter.


	17. Drag

Lowering the empty firearm, Abraham Whistler took a few steps closer to the bodies. Even with his weary eyes, he could see the spread of blood on the dark ground, the deep wounds riddled among the Daywalker’s flesh. He’d told Eric not to wait for him—to go on and get to Josh before the monster could so much as open her mouth. In the end, he supposed they succeeded.

Landing on his knees on the grass beside him, the old man took a deep breath upon finding more damage than he’d expected, letting it out only as a hand came up to his, gripping tightly. It was the first instance that they could slow down, sit and rest without the loom of death. The wounds wouldn’t be Eric’s end even in their multitude, no matter if they waited to attend to them. Looking down to the weakened Daywalker, the old man tried on a weak smile, patting the younger’s hand in his.

“Come on, kid,” he spoke softly. “Let’s get home.”

It took a few moments to rise to his feet, his leg aching within its brace from all their efforts. He reached down, helping to haul the hybrid up from the stained soil. Hurriedly, he pulled his arm over his shoulders to help support them both, keeping them upright even if they swayed. Whistler started the rest of the way out into the clearing, keen on getting to the cockpit before Blade passed out.

“Wait—,” the younger mumbled, lulling his head up; he halted what bit he’d been shuffling along.

“Come on—.”

“We can’t…” he shook his head, trying to fight against the old man’s onward motions. He couldn’t do that to him, scar him with the scene of Josh painted over the walls. In honesty, he wasn’t sure if he could take the sight himself after all they’d lived through, knowing who he was. Had Ulrike not told him, he could’ve passed it off as someone else—convinced himself it wasn’t their Josh and spent the rest of his life searching aimlessly for him.

That wasn’t the way of things.

Blade shifted and let go of Abraham, sinking back to the ground. The boost he’d been given earlier was gone from his system, his body weary and breaking more and more by the moment. He felt so hopelessly human, looking up to Whistler with a slack expression. He knew the old man was lost as to the reason for his fit, but he had no energy left to fight—not a suckhead nor his mentor.

Reaching up, Whistler yanked open the hatch of the vessel, letting it swing open as he turned back around. Grabbing at the hybrid’s coat, he did his best to tug him up inside.

*******

The landing rocked him out of his dormancy, the ache of his body washing over him at once, pulling him into a sort of vague state. He cracked his eyes to the scattered morning light in time to catch Whistler stepping from the cockpit, his form hunched in fatigue. The old eyes that met with his shone bright after all this dilemma, ready to fight another battle so long as it wasn’t today.

They’d arrived home, he knew, but just barely.

“You’re gonna have to get yourself up—Ain’t no way I can do it.” The way he spoke—Eric didn’t need to see his face to know he wore a smile. Strange, how a simple gesture dropped his stomach from his body; made him itch to burst forth with acrimony. It was chaos for a moment inside of him, a mixing pot of agony and ire that threatened to spew—but instead settled into a queer sense of comfort.

How could he smile after all they lost?

“How’re your legs feelin’?” the old man continued on, unaware of the Daywalker’s turmoil. 

Forcing himself up, Eric felt every muscle shift beneath his skin, burning as though each one was hanging on by a single taut thread. He swallowed hard once and then again when it had no effect on his leaden throat. Nonetheless, he managed out a short bit to satisfy the question; “Had worse.”

“Think you can walk?”

He hesitated, his stiff form protesting an attempt to stand. Settling for a seat with his legs over the side of the makeshift couch, he dared a look up to the older. “Might take a while.”

“I’ll make another trip back to help you then,” the old man offered, glancing to the scene of an early morning sky out the window; a sight for weary eyes, but welcome even so.

“What’ve you got to carry down that’s so important, old man?” he knit his brows, rubbing his legs between each excruciating wound.

“I don’t mean to pick favorites, but there’s no way I’m making that kid carry himself.”


	18. Darkness Surrounding

“Hey—I thought you learned to knock!” came the yelp of surprise so familiar to him, the television flicking a channel or two before shutting off.

“Gave it up when you didn’t answer last time,” Whistler shrugged, glancing to the remote in the kid’s hand. “I’m not gonna ask, as long as yer stayin’ in bed.”

Fiddling with the worn down buttons, Scud lowered his gaze from the doorway, his shoulders relaxing. “What’s going on?”

“A whole lot of nothing—You hungry yet?”

“You keep trying to feed me. I’m gonna explode if you don’t quit,” he tried on a sheepish smile. 

“You want me to stop? ‘Cause I can—.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—.”

“—Could leave you on your own for meals—.”

“—Oh God, W, I was kidding—.”

“—Got plenty of other things to do—.”

“Alright, already, I’ll eat!”

With a satisfied smirk, the old man turned away, swinging the door closed behind him.

*******

It was late in the evening when Josh slipped from bed, careful to avoid all the dishes Whistler insisted on bringing him, but never returned for. It felt good to be out of bed, the warehouse air cool over his exposed skin. His bruises and cuts had healed enough that only touch brought on their dulled pain, so for a moment he considered trying to wear pants for the first time since he’d been at rest; he decided to stay in his boxers for the time being. 

Cracking open the door out to the catwalk, he eased it shut behind him, careful not to make a sound. It was harder to pass down the walkway in silence than he recalled, the metal giving small groans of protest. Glancing over the railing, he meant to keep a lookout for an on-guard Whistler, instead finding his form hunched over at his station, asleep. With a smile, he eased past the second door and into the darkness that awaited there, rather proud of his success.

“Josh.”

A squeak escaped his lips at the deep voice, the door slipping out of his grip to bang flatly off the frame. With his hand on his chest, Scud took a moment to recollect himself. “You’re up…”

“So are you.”

The younger began grabbing around the room, making his way to the bed where the Daywalker rested. He stumbled as he reached it, the mattress creaking beneath him when he dared enough to perch at the hybrid’s side. “How are you doin’?” 

Eric took a deep breath, having figured the boy would come eventually as he remained unable—he had yet to decide what it was he’d say to him.

“Better than I was,” he shrugged despite the darkness that consumed the human before him. Here in the gloom, he felt he could finally grip that Josh was alive and well; that all of Ulrike’s words had been false in the very end. He could see the guilt that consumed the other, wishing he could convey how every last drop of blood had been worth it. “Be back at it in no time.”

Taking a deep breath, the brunet sighed. “Whistler wouldn’t tell me how bad you were—Or even what it was that happened.”

“It was nothing for you to worry about,” Eric spoke evenly, pushing himself to sit up in bed. 

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t,” the younger shifted uneasily at the movement. “What did she do to bang you up this bad?”

“This bad?”

Scud gave a small scoff, rolling his eyes. “We both know W couldn’t keep you down if he tried, which means you’ve been resting up on your own all this time. She had to’ve put in plenty of cheap shots…”

“You could say that,” his brows raised, nodding. “She did a number on my legs is all there is to it.”

“That it?” Josh smiled, biting his lip a moment. “Just a few bullets, B?”

“Watch it, kid.” His tone was so lighthearted, a sound Scud had seldom heard but thought of often. It felt surreal to hear it here in the dark, empty space all around filled only by the Daywalker’s presence; it left him with this illusion of drunken dreaming.

In that state, he leaned forward, resting against the warmth of the hybrid. He was still tired from all the time Whistler had been keeping him on bed-rest, but being here was something so entirely apart that it drowned out all else. 

Then there were hands at his waist, pulling him back up from the comfort of his chest. Josh’s hands scrambled beneath him a moment for some hold, finding their perch on the Daywalker’s shoulders as his body was sat upon the older’s lap. 

“B—B?” his voice came quietly through the silence, curious but not wary. No reply came, only the touch over his bare thighs, the warm breath over his throat. He knew what would happen in that instant, recognized it from three years worth of fantasies, and he sat himself up to aid as best he could. Sliding his boxers down, he worked out of them, his BPRD shirt following by Blade’s hand. 

Settling back down onto his lap, he could feel the press from beneath the covers; heard the soft sigh from Eric’s lips as he stripped away the fabric and smacked softly up against the younger. With a soft whimper, Josh tangled his fingers into Eric’s undershirt, the whole world falling away into the night.


	19. The One in Hand

Still pulling his shirt down over his head, Josh thudded eagerly down the squealing steps, his footfalls carrying out across the warehouse. Grabbing the end of the railing, he swung himself around toward his work station with a bounce in his step. He’d been lying around on bed-rest for weeks on end—at least, as far as Whistler knew—when he’d come to him, agreeing to let the kid get back to his job.

Standing before his station, he took in a deep breath; grease and copper were still in the air from his last project, a calming revelation as he noticed some things at his desks had been shifted. All his metal scraps and chopped up auto parts remained present, though most had been shoved toward one end of the table, away from his screens. Stepping up, he leaned with his palms on the surface’s edge, eyes roaming casually over the tools on the wall above. As his gaze slowly worked down over his dust-filmed television, he noticed the two cases resting atop his VCR, the red light telling him someone had plugged it in while he was gone.

Picking up the cases, he furrowed his brows, seeing they were numbered. His mind at once made some assumption as to what they might be, wondering who here would come to his station to watch— _that._ The idea brought a smirk to his lips; maybe Whistler was a bit more spry than he gave the old man credit for.

Cracking open the first of the two, he popped it into the player and tapped the tv’s power button, too curious to leave it be. He wound the volume all the way down, to be safe, and crossed his arms as he stood back.

No previews came up onscreen, nor a menu boasting raunchy images. All that flashed before his eyes were torturous memories accompanying the footage of the Last Day, the abruptness of the change inside of him clamping down as a vice. What could he do but stare into the scene, feeling every blow afresh when a moment ago he’d had the audacity to smile?

He’d been blind to his own shaking before the steady hand on his shoulder shook him back to the moment, a gasp leaving his lips.

“ _Hey_ —Hey…” came the old man’s soft voice, reaching around him to eject the tape. Static filtered over the muted screen, allowing Josh to pull away from it uneasily. “You okay?”

“Where’d that come from?” he uttered, the grip in his chest growing numb under Whistler’s gaze. “Who put it here?”

“Ulrike sent them when you disappeared. I didn’t remember to take them when Eric found a lead…” shaking his head, he drew a sharp breath. “I didn’t think to grab them until now.”

“What’s on the, uh—what’s on the second one?”

“Next to nothing,” he assured him, stepping away toward the desk. “It was blank for hours before it finally popped up a message at the end; a taunt to lure us in, as if we needed it.”

“Why’d she leave it blank for so long?” he asked, hugging his arms and watching as Whistler set down a small box.

“I’d been wondering that myself,” the old man admitted, taking the tape from the VCR and shutting it away. “I think she did it to make us wait—to give herself some time to run.”

“Sounds about right,” he shrugged, leaning back against his station. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That box. The one you just brought here,” Scud motioned past him to it.

“Found it when we found you; propped in the door where you were kept. I finally picked it up yesterday morning and cut it open.” Taking it into his hands, Abraham pulled back the flaps and produced a case from within, a ‘3’ written over its surface.

Josh let out a small noise, his eyes shifting between it and its holder. “What’s on that one?”

Whistler pressed it into the machine, the screen flickering back to life. Switching up the volume once more, he put some space between the young man and himself, letting him see on his own.

Scenes long forgotten played underneath the sounds of voices lost in time, laughter echoing in stunned ears. It astonished him into frozen silence, Josh’s eyes widening to try and take it all in. This was his family that he saw, all these scenes home videos from numerous occasions—Christmas, Easter, Halloween, summer break, vacation…

It went on and on, and when it finally cut to black, he began to sob quietly. This is what was stolen, the life he’s wronged by forgetting. He couldn’t apologize to these people, his family; he could never go back and try to take it all in. These events he just watched unfold were supposed to be his, but they spun from a tape that had once been Ulrike’s, and therefore were just as tainted as any other memory before Blade.

“We could look for them.” The suggestion from the broken old man brought mirth from the younger’s lips, a bit crazed in their sudden burst.

“What’re the odds she left them alive?” he asked, peering over his shoulder to the other, his eyes dulled and red. He softened once he saw the concern Abraham held, shying away at once. “Besides, it’s not like we have a lead.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to look,” Whistler shrugged. “We have the rest of our lives to look for one.”

Ejecting the tape, Josh slowly closed it up and sat at his station with the trinity in his lap. Suddenly, bed-rest didn’t seem so bad. “Let’s take it one night at a time… See what we can see,” he spoke softly. The idea of looking shook him in a way he couldn’t comprehend. He didn’t want to—but the idea of finding them knotted his stomach and sped his heart rate all the same.

“That’s good enough for me.” Whistler’s shrugged his shoulders once more, looking down to the hunched form of the tortured boy. “Hey—give them here.”

Reluctantly, Josh raised the first two cases up to Abraham’s outstretched hand, hugging the third closer as he took them.

“When you decide it’s time to look, come find me,” he offered, watching the younger bit at his lip, eyes cast off. “We’ve got you, kid.”


End file.
